Seeking the Rose
by Wood Fawne
Summary: Gwynayne, the bastard child to the king of Wayrest is sent to study at the College of Winterhold to escape a deadly court plot. Guarded by a Rose Knight, she makes her way across Skyrim, only to become entangled with the rebel uprising and return of the dragons. (Includes both original characters and those from the game.)
1. Chapter One - The Deluge

Hello! Thank you so much for your time, I hope you enjoy my first fanfic! This story is set during the events of Skyrim, including both original characters and those from the game (of which of course I do not own).

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**Chapter One**

**The Deluge**

"I insist we turn north at once, my lady. I believe you and your sightseeing venture has been indulged long enough. We will not be able to cross."

The swollen river seemed to breathe as its turbulent waters beat against the shoreline, tearing growth and sodden ground with every ebb. The sound of the rushing waters turning with debris and the pelting rain drowned out the Rose Knight's entreaty to his young charge. She remained motionless at the river's edge, seemingly indifferent to the violent storm overhead and the grasping waves of the water below.

"We are soaked through and there is no bridge in sight. We have but a few hours of what dismal light there is, I insist we turn back at once to find lodgings."

His charge gave no response and remained fixated on the turning waters. Pulling his cloak tighter, he stepped out of the tree line and into the downpour, grimacing as his feet sunk into the boggy undergrowth. Water had long since flooded his boots and his patience was wearing thin.

"Please, my lady," he started as he came to her side, "we must – "

A small hand shout out from underneath his charge's cloak, poised just above his lips.

"Hush!" the young woman snapped, quickly turning her head to show brows furled, clearly displeased, "You're being insipid, Mordistair. And what's more, you've broken my concentration!"

With an exasperated sigh, she placed her hands on her hips and started intently at the river, its waters growing ever closer to the bank. The Rose Knight scowled as he turned to glance at the darkening sky, charcoal grey and slate blue with ever building storm clouds.

"The light is fading quickly, as is my patience," he warned, "We are returning to Falkreath at once, now come away from the edge before this whole bank is consumed."

"This weather sours your mood, it is most unbecoming," the young woman dismissed with an upturned nose.

"But soon we shall be gazing upon the mead halls and sweet rolls of Whiterun!" she exclaimed as she suddenly threw back her cloak and raised her arms, a look of ecstasy in her eyes. With palms spread, she shot forth a thick stream of ice that quickly spread and crackled across the waters, colliding violently with the oncoming thrashing waters. Soon tendrils of ice reached the far bank and began to crawl up and across the riverside. As the ice grew thicker the woman beamed.

"My lady, stop!" the knight cried out, "This is madness!"

His charge only laughed in wild excitement, grinning from ear to ear. The ice continued to fight against the waters and was slowly spreading, sending waves crashing in every direction as the water built behind the forming bridge. Shards of broken off ice churned in the water along with the growing pile of debris. Logs and mud slammed against the ice and bank, desperate to push past the barrier as the river quickly swelled.

"No!" the knight shouted as he reached for the arms of his charge. As he turned on his heel, the ground beneath him shuddered. For a sickening moment, the bank suddenly tilted then plunged into the river, pulling him down into the frothy mix of ice and branches.

It took only a moment for her guardian's body to disappear beneath the silt covered surface and the young woman watched helplessly, her face aghast with shock as the river swallowed him whole.

"Mordistair!"

As disbelief wracked her mind, dissolving her focus and her arms now held out limp at her sides, the spell dissipated. The weakened frost bridge shattered, spraying shards of ice into the river and sky. As the released water pushed through the gap with ravenous greed it pulled at the remaining ice attached firmly to the bank, and with a sudden wrench the ground beneath the girl's feet was sucked into the sudden rush.

As she screamed her mouth filled with muddied water. In an instant she was she was pulled into the dark depths of the violent river, unable to see the oncoming barrage.

Her body was violently twisted and turned along the rocky riverbed. Again and again her struggling arms and legs careened into rocks and thick fallen branches that were being tossed about as she. Terrified she would be knocked unconscious she fought in vain to cover her head. Unable to see, she suddenly gasped as her body was slammed against what she could only assume was one of the many fallen logs cluttering the river. Water rushed to fill her lungs and her body began to seize, desperate for breath. Clawing for the surface, her hands became entwined in algae and the riverside growth that had been pulled in with her. Choking, taking in more water, her thrashing head rammed against a riverside boulder. As black spots took over her vision, she felt something encircle her body in an inexplicable embrace.

* * *

Mordistair's eyes grew wide with shock as he felt the ground loosen beneath him. He saw his charge's smile fade, twisting into a scream and suddenly his body was enclosed in mud and rushing water. His back scraped along the bottom of the river as he was thrust into the crashing, frantic undertows. Trying desperately to stay clearheaded he sought out the barely visible light above. Kicking, he struggled to the surface, clawing his way through the twigs and debris. As he strained his head above the rising waters, he desperately sucked in a quick, unsatisfying gasp of air before a crashing wave forced him under. Feeling his strength diminish under the relentless force of the river, he made one last attempt to break through the surface. Seeing the outline of a fallen log, he desperately grasped for it branches, clinging onto the rotting bark with his little remaining strength. His lips parted, screaming in agony as his muscles shuddered, desperately heaving himself out of the water, coughing up the muddy water and gasping for breath. His fingernails dug deep into the decaying wood as he swung his legs out of the river and straddled the log. He turned his head to face the now shattered ice bridge, panicking as he saw his charge nowhere in sight.

"Lady Gwynayne!" he screamed, pushing his torso up off the log. His eyes darted wildly from one bank to the next, scouring the turbulent waters for any sign of the girl. With desperate breaths, he looked along the length of the log and caught a glimpse of small, pale fingers brushing lifelessly against the surface. Without hesitation he flung himself into the river. Though the water was sullied with the constant supply of mud and uprooted riverside growth, he spotted the quickly disappearing wisps of his charge's white hair. His strength exhausted, he tried merely to steady his course towards the girl as the river pulled him along. As the faint outline of her body came into sight, he dove forward, pushing against the rocky riverbed and grabbed hold of her small, limp body. Pulling her close, he tried to lift her head above water. Feeling his own body go limp, his muscles and lungs screaming in protest, he could only manage to hold her close and with terror realized they were at the mercy of the river.

As his lungs burned with desperation, Mordistair caught sight of a riverside boulder and braced for the oncoming impact. As the river violently careened the two against the boulder, their bodies began to slide against the slippery algae that covered its base. Knowing his lungs were about to give way, he dug his feet along the riverbed and clawed at the boulder. Just as his vision began to blur, his fingers caught on a small divot in the stone, his muscles again screaming with protest as the river fought to pull him further along. With a heave he forced Gwynayne further up the boulder until finally their heads broke the surface.

Heaving and chocking, the knight sought out a stronger foothold and struggled to pull both he and his charge further up the boulder and out of the river. It wasn't until he collapsed against her body that he noticed she made no movements and her chest lay still.

"My lady?" He managed to gasp in between breathes.

Her skin was nearly as white as her hair and her lips, normally a deep shade of plum, were pale and lifeless. Reeds and grass entwined her body and she was drenched in mud and filth. Again he gasped with desperation, "Lady Gwynayne?" and struggled to lift himself off her side.

The rain continued to pelt the two as the river swelled, the ever rising waters creeping up the side of the boulder, pulling at their legs. Again Mordistair attempted to drag both he and Gwynayne further up the boulder in hopes of reaching the bank, a tangled mess of roots only just above their heads. Slipping on the slick coating of algae he nearly slid off the rock side, and the two lurched further down into the water.

Growing ever paler and still without breath, Gwynayne's head lolled to the side as she slid alongside the knight back into the rushing waters. Realizing he had little time, Mordistair used what strength he could muster to keep them from falling any further back into the river. With trembling hands he parted the girl's lips and weakly gave what breath he had to her. Pulling away he coughed, gasped for air and again brought his lips to hers as he tried to revive her. Suddenly he felt her body seize and pulled away as she began to cough up river water. Turning her on her side, he gripped her arm to keep her from falling off the boulder. With a small groan between hurried breathes, she fell back onto the rock side and dully stared into the distant sky above, letting the rain beat against her face.

"Lady Gwynayne?" Mordistair pleaded, "Can you hear me?"

Still panting, she closed her eyes and weakly nodded her head. Exhausted, her body went limp against his.

Suddenly, he heard a distant crash as something violently disturbed the river, and gripped the rock in horror as he saw the last of the ice encrusted bank being ripped from the shore and plunged into the already turbulent waters. The wedge of frozen earth hurtled down the river, slamming against the shoreline, pulling along logs and riverside debris in its wake.

With mere moments to act, the knight heaved the body of his charge across his back and clawed his way up the boulder, desperately reaching out for the overhanging roots. As he pulled his body off the rock side, the first sheets of ice shattered against the boulder. Muscles seizing, he roared with pain as he thrust Gwynayne onto the nest of roots above them and as first waves hit managed to pull himself aground next to her.

The frozen bankside slammed against the boulder they had only just clung to, spraying the air with shards of ice. Arms across his face to shield himself, Mordistair watched as the remaining ice and bankside continued down the river.

With the ordeal seemingly over, the Rose Knight collapsed onto his forearms, concentrating on simply breathing. Suddenly his head snapped forward and his ears pricked at the sound of shuffling undergrowth and snapping twigs.

Imagining every manner of beast, the knight thrust himself in front of his charge and drew his blade limply at his side, swaying as he grew faint. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his knees and leveled his sword towards the trees, still panting for breath.

Slowly, a handful of men, cloaked in furs and blue sashes broke through the tree line. Coming to a halt in front of the young knight, they reached for their swords, startled at the sight of the drenched and wild eyed warrior.

Mordistair's fingers dug deep into the boggy mud as he struggled to stay upright. His lungs still ached for air and his body shuttered as he fought to catch his breath. Unable to keep both his body and sword aloft, his arms shaking as they grew ever weaker, he started lowering to ground, all the while looking with fierce determination toward the men staring him down. His eyes met with those of the leading soldier and for a moment the two regarded one another. Catching a glimpse of the young girl behind him, the soldier nodded to his fellow men and released the hilt of his sword.

"Let's get these two back to the camp."


	2. Chapter Two - Bears in Winter

Thank you so much to everyone who followed and commented so far! I hope you enjoy the next chapter, I hope to continue publishing one every week or so, hopefully within a few days of each other, if possible.

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Chapter Two

Bears in Winter

Mordistair's vision started to fade. His head hung limply on his chest, bobbing as it rose and fell with his short, stifled breaths. He could no longer feel his limbs, neither his legs as they trudged along the decaying forest path, nor his arms as they clung to Gwynayne, carried on his back. Sweat mixed with the now trickling rainfall that slid down his face. Swaying, he stumbled and fell against one of the many soldiers who had found him and his charge earlier in the evening.

"Eh! Perhaps now you'll stop this foolishness, boy! Let's have her here."

The soldier began to reach for the girl in an effort to relieve the young knight, but he only sidestepped the soldier's advances and grunted as he readjusted his grip on Gwynayne. Curled over, pausing for a breath, he started at the ground beneath him, trying to steady himself.

"She…she is…my…responsibility," he murmured determinedly between pants. Without waiting for a reply, he started again, following the remaining soldiers.

"Oafish lad…" the soldier muttered as he began off after him. The soldier next to him chuckled and clapped a hand on his friend's fur and mail covered back.

"Ah, let the boy keep his pride! He can collapse soon enough."

He spoke truth, and not more than a few minutes had passed before the overgrown trail opened into a clearing in the darkened woods, lit only by a patchwork of small fires. The soldiers surrounding him began to disperse as they headed to various campsites, eager to claim their seats by the fire and indulge in what little mead and food was available. The soldier who had seemed to lead the small regiment parted for one of the few tents on the outskirts of the clearing, muttering to the others to lead the boy to a fire. Mordistair lifted his head as the smell of smoke and roasting meat consumed him, and using the last of his strength, took long strides to close the gap between himself and comfort.

Collapsing to the sodden ground, he shrugged Gwynayne off his back and cradled her in his arm as he ripped the crimson cloak from his armor, the ornate rose emblem now covered in mud. He threw it to the ground, quickly smoothing the creases and folds, then gently lay his charge atop it. She stirred from the transition, mumbling something inaudible in her sleep. In what simple attempt he could manage in order to soothe her, he tenderly brushed stray hairs aside that clung to her cheeks. Soldiers that surrounded the fire watched in silence as he brought a knee to his chest and rested his head, eyes closed, finally able to catch his breath.

Many throughout the camp stared at the knight, decorated in opulent finery, clad in an exquisitely crafted ebony breastplate adorned with silver detailing and decorated with sculpted black and crimson roses. It shone in the light of the fire, gleaming after being polished by the recent downpour. Though stained with mud and the filth of the river, his clothing, a white tunic and cravat trimmed with lace and embroidered roses and tailored black pants stood in stark contrast to the matted fur and well-worn chain and tunics of the soldiers sharing the fire. Their leather armaments showed obvious wear and many of their helmets and gauntlets were dull and beaten in appearance. Obviously Breton, with his pale complexion and dark bistre colored hair and eyes, he looked out of place amidst the messy blonde hair and pale eyes of the Nordic soldiers.

An uncomfortable silence hung over the camp as the soldiers continued to take in the pair of Bretons who had so suddenly been thrust upon them. As the party who had first stumbled across them began to tell their tale, a few began to mutter of the young, unconscious girl and her evident elfish features. Her light hair, white as the frost and snow that adorned their own country, pointed ears, and slight frame were clear evidence of her muddled pedigree, leaving the troops with only more concern. Though the young Rose Knight kept his eyes downcast, trying to recover his strength, he listened intently to the soft spoken discussion around him, growing ever more apprehensive about his and his charge's arrival to this rebellion encampment.

* * *

"We found them on the bank, seems the poor sods were caught in the storm trying to cross the river. I thought it only right to bring them back to camp."

The soldier stood erect before his commander, firm in his decision, showing no hesitation in admitting his actions.

"And what do we know of these strangers?" his commander questioned, his voice deep and gruff and his Nord accent thick. He leaned over a simple wooden table, a map sprawled open with small markers scattered across it. "You say they are Bretons? One of them with damn elfish blood?" He turned now to face his soldier, his lips and brows furled tight with growing indignation. "They will hold no sympathy for our cause, be they Forsworn or loyal to the Empire, or to the damn Thalmor for all we know."

The soldier bowed his head.

"With all respect, Jarl Ulfric, I do not believe we have reason to fear these two. The boy is a Rose Knight, his ties are not with the Forsworn. His only intentions seem to be guarding the young girl, for what purpose…I admit I was unable to discern. But I am confident they act alone, with no ties to our enemies."

"And this elf mongrel?"

"A Breton of some importance I can only assume, my Jarl."

"All Bretons fancy themselves important," Ulfric sneered, "Not enough titles to satisfy the lot."

For a moment the soldier was silent, as the Jarl returned to studying the map and regiment positions in front of him. His large form, cloaked in a bear hide blocked most of the light in the small tent, and cast an imposing presence even when turned away and otherwise occupied. The soldier stiffened and his eyes were cast downward in distress.

"Would you have them turned away or…held?"

"The boy still has his senses about him, yes?" the Jarl asked over his shoulder, "Bring him to me."

The soldier nodded, "At once, my Jarl," then turned to leave, tossing aside the still soaking tent flap.

"And confiscate his weapons until I make such a decision as to the threat he poses."

The soldier continued into the clearing, eager to leave the cold shadows of the overhanging tree line. He made his way to the Rose Knight, resting with the girl at his side. From what little interaction he had with the boy he knew his Jarl's demands would be met with stubborn resistance. A knight of a faraway court, holding loyalty to one master, would be certain to give intense opposition.

"I will have to ask for your blade," the soldier insisted, stopping in front of the knight, his hand held aloft to accept his ebony sword, sheathed at his waist.

Mordistair stared incredulously at the soldier before him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Slowly he rose to his feet, showing obvious signs of fatigue. He gripped the hilt of his sword and the small decorated tassel danced.

"You understand I shall have to decline," he maintained.

"My Jarl would see you, but unarmed. Your blade will be returned. I insist that you will not be offered our continued hospitality should you refuse."

The soldier stood resolute. His etiquette and learned speech was unlike those exhibited by the uncivilized brutes that surrounded the knight, whom he was coming to distrust as the evening waned to night. Studying his eyes, hoping the sincerity he saw would prove true, Mordistair begrudgingly slipped the sheath from his belt and with pause, placed it into the hands of the soldier.

Nodding with approval, the soldier turned to escort Mordistair to his commander's tent. With a last glance to his charge, Mordistair followed, unease quickly setting in.

* * *

"So tell me what a Rose Knight is doing in my country?"

Ulfric stood with arms crossed, his imposing figure blocking the small amount of lantern light in the tent, cloaking him and Mordistair in dark shadows. He towered over the young man in front of him, his girth alone made the knight appear almost childlike in comparison.

"Though my lady is unable to at this time, I offer thanks in her stead for the aid and comfort we have received from you and your men."

He spoke calmly but cautiously, and his face remained expressionless.

"If you would direct me towards Falkreath, we would leave immediately," he continued, his eyes never breaking contact with the Jarl, "I, nor my lady I'm sure, would desire to consume your provisions and take shelter from your men any longer than necessary."

As the Jarl's eyes bore down on him, Mordistair pursed his lips and steadied his gaze with creased brows, every fiber in his being wanting nothing more than to take his lady and flee the rebel camp. His hand, clad in a black leather glove, twitched, anxious to have possession of his ebony blade. He felt the cold steel of his dagger brush against his calf, hidden deep in the detailed folds of his leather boots, but only felt an equally cold sense of comfort, for the small blade would not overcome these winter bears.

"Such a silver tongue for one so young," the Jarl finally scoffed, "but you shall not leave this tent by evading my questions, little knight."

"I guard my lady, and ensure her safety as she travels," Mordistair continued, ignoring the insult.

"And for what purpose does she travel? Rose Knights do not guard mere travelers."

"We have no connection to these Imperials you face," Mordistair began to assuage, growing agitated, "we are but two visitors to Skyrim, with ties to none."

"A curious choice, to visit a country in the middle of a war."

"I intend to keep her far from this war."

"And yet you are here, eating my meat, drinking my mead, sitting in front of my fires."

"We shall leave as soon as my weapon is returned, as I have already promised. Your soldiers offered us aid and I accepted, but if we are not welcome, then we shall leave for the nearest town at once," the knight asserted, becoming irritated with the Jarl's assumptions and discourteous tone.

The Jarl's face grew tighter with frustration and building ire as he closed the distance between he and the knight. A full two head's taller, casting cold blue eyes down upon the young Rose Knight he warned between gritted teeth, "I will know who you are, who this elf mongrel is, and where you are traveling to boy, or the neither of you shall leave. I will not ask again."

Staring with equal determination, Mordistair curled his lips in hostility, no longer feeling safe within reach of the bear clad warrior.

"Our names will mean nothing to you, our anonymity is necessary for my lady's protection. We travel north, but I am permitted to say nothing more," he quickly maintained, and with a steeled voice, avowed, "We have no interest in this war."

The two stared at one another for a moment, their frustration and contempt now equaled.

"I am not satisfied."

* * *

Gwynayne sought out the warmth of the fire and weakly turned her head toward the flames. Still asleep, she moaned quietly, her face seemingly distressed.

_"__Papa!"_

_She rushed forward and jumped into her father's open arms. Laughing, they embraced, and the aging man tenderly patted his daughter's hair, setting her back to the floor after a few moments. _

_"__Oh my little Gwynii, you shall break my back someday."_

_Giggling, she took a step back to let her father regain his composure as he pretended to massage his back._

_"__I won't apologize, Papa! I missed you far too much," she exclaimed, still smiling. Gradually, her smile faded and looking toward the floor she softly, forlornly continued, "I haven't seen you since the harvest, Papa…I haven't seen anyone."_

_The King's smile fell, and for a moment, he only started at his daughter. Tucking a stray white strand of hair behind her ear, he rubbed her cheek and bowed to look her in the eye._

_"__I…I know, my dear. And I wish I could explain-"_

_"__Mordistair never let me leave the cottage!" she suddenly interrupted, her eyes welling with tears and her fists now balled at her sides, "I couldn't speak to anyone, I couldn't see anyone! You needed me Papa! Why did you send me away?"_

_Tears were now trickling down her cheeks and neck. Her shoulders quivered and she thrust herself into her father's arms once again, sobbing into his chest. _

_"__Oh my Gwynii," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her shaking figure in a tight embrace, "I know these past months have been difficult for you, my darling. I have missed you more than I believe you shall ever realize. These halls have lost such color and light since you left."_

_"__Then why did you banish me?" she sobbed, heaving on the words._

_Suddenly the King chuckled softly._

_"__Oh, Gwynii, it seems you have not lost your sense of theatrics. I hope you have not thought yourself a criminal all this time?"_

_Her crying quieted and she peeked above the robes of her father, a quizzical expression crossing her features. _

_"__I know this must all seem quite confusing. I…" _

_He became silent, and gazed out the open doors of the balcony. The sun had begun to set, and the room was now bathed in rich hues of red and purple. His eyes crossed the line of paintings that span the whole of the room, massive works that stretched from floor to ceiling. It was the last one that he solemnly lingered upon, and held his daughter closer. _

_"__Papa?"_

"Papa?"

Everything suddenly felt strange. Gwynayne felt as if she were being tossed about the deck of a ship amidst a storm. She felt her head lurch, and her body violently pulled forward.

"Papa?" she groggily called out, still in the last clutches of sleep. As her eyes gradually began to flutter open, she moaned in weak protest as she felt her arms being wrenched behind her back.

"Get your hands off her!"

With a gasp, Gwynayne awoke. At first she could see only shadows. As the grip about her shoulders and wrists tightened, she regained her senses and immediately began to struggle. Straining her head to the side, she saw fur clad soldiers begin to tightly wind a rope about her arms. Thrashing, she immediately tried to pull away, but was quickly overcome and forced onto the ground.

"Stop it!" she shrieked, trying to again wriggle away from the hands that now began to bind her legs.

"Mordistair! MORDISTAIR!" she screamed, begging, her voice raw from her recent, violent consumption of river water.

"No! Leave her alone!"

"Mordistair?" she again screamed, terror consuming her as she furiously searched for her guardian companion. With a violent heave, she was pulled from the ground and a pair of soldiers gripped her arms as they began to drag her across the clearing, her arms and legs bound. In the dim light of a distant fire, she saw her knight being dragged as she, vigorously trying to fight off the multiple soldiers that were attempting to bind and contain him. For every soldier he subdued, two more rushed into the thrall.

Utterly confused, having been unconscious since being pulled from the river, she looked to her captors and again began to squirm and struggle, demanding to be released at once. The more she pulled, the tighter the soldiers gripped her, and as she began to drag her feet, they simply lifted her from the ground, as easily a simple sack of potatoes.

"Stop struggling and this will be easier for us all," one of the soldiers warned, "call out to your friend, tell him to surrender."

Worried, Gwynayne sought out to discern the ongoing struggle between Mordistair and the surrounding circle of soldiers, noticing a beastly man overseeing the affair with arms crossed. The Rose Knight swung at the soldiers, shoving and punching at those who tried to overcome him. Suddenly, the bear clad man watching the fight drew his sword. Only a few paces away, he marched quickly to her side and lifted his sword to her neck, firmly holding the cool blade against her throat.

"Enough, boy!" he shouted, and pushed the blade against her throat even harder, making her wince in fear and pain.

Without hesitation, Mordistair dropped his arms, staring at his now terrorized charge. Panting, he stared on as she began to tremble, seemingly on the verge of tears. Wasting no time, the soldiers now beat him to the ground, thrusting his face into the cold, damp earth and binding his limbs. Some began to kick his prostrate body in retaliation, laughing as he began to gasp and cough.

"No! Stop! STOP!" Gwynayne pleaded, looking to the man who towered above her, his face cloaked in shadows.

With a look of derision, tiring of the whole debacle, the Jarl sheathed his sword and waved his hand, ordering his soldiers to take his prisoners to the edge of camp.

Gwynayne cried out as she saw Mordistair lifted to his feet, being dragged now as she. Blood dripped from his forehead and cheek, staining his white cravat as it pooled at his neck. His hair, once tightly pulled into a ponytail now lay disheveled across his face and hung limply across his shoulder, matted with blood and sweat. He no longer struggled and would not meet her gaze as he was dragged along beside her.

Heart racing, she trembled as the soldiers brought them to the edge of camp, into the void of shadows and cries of the forest.


	3. Chapter Three - Frost Bitten Binds

Hello again! Thank you again to everyone who has followed the story so far. Please feel free to review, any constructive criticism would be wonderful. On a quick sidenote: I will be altering a few of the initial beginning parts to the opening of the game as a way to better fit the plot. They will more than likely only be small details and dialogue, but some events could be altered as well. I hope you enjoy!

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Chapter Three

Frost Bitten Binds

The rain had only stopped but an hour ago and the night had already begun to freeze the sodden ground.

Gwynayne's fingers and toes curled as she shivered in the frigid Nordic night. Her dress still clung to her legs, no longer dripping but still wet, the first frost crystals slowly creeping up the tattered ribbons. Even the slightest of wintry breezes sent the soft layers of lace, chiffon, and silk fluttering, sending chills racing across her skin as the chilled fabric brushed against it. Her scalp began to ache and pinch, for the soldiers in their brutal haste had tied strands of her floor length hair into their knots as they bound her. The rest hung limp across her shoulders in damp clumps and tangled knots, cascading onto the forest floor in a disheveled heap. Her once fine fur lined boots sagged sadly toward her ankles, matted with mud and soiled beyond use.

Her nose and ears had become bright pink, burning with cold and as she quivered. Small puffs of her breath froze in the night, a pale mist that hovered before her before dissipating into the darkness of the forest shadows. She stared out to the fires with such longing, and as she strained forward, winced, for yet another lock of her hair pulled taught against her now burning scalp.

One of two guards who stood watch over the prisoners leaned against a nearby tree, sighing in exasperation, pulling a Talos amulet from beneath his mail and thumbing it over. The other shook his head, but quickly relaxed against the low hanging branch of a nearby pine, staring off into the clear night sky.

"My lady?"

Gwynayne turned quickly in surprise, her guardian had not spoken, nor even turned to face her, since being bound to the tree, despite her pleads for information. His voice was low, she could barely hear him, even in the silence of the night. His head hung low, his eyes downcast and whispered again, "Do you have strength enough to cast a spell?"

"I – "

"Bow your head," he quickly interrupted, still speaking in hushed, but desperate, tones, "turn away from me."

Gwynayne had often thought her knight far too serious and droll, and for such a remark at any other time, she would have rebuked and teased, but the events of evening had a potent subjugating effect on the young woman, and without a word did as she was told.

"Can you manage," he asked again.

"I…I don't know. Mordistair, please tell me what's happening? I don't understand," her voice began to rise as her fear and confusion escalated, "Who are these men? What do they – "

"Hush!" He snarled in quiet intensity.

Gwynayne cringed at his sudden outburst. Shivering, she bowed her head, laying it atop her drawn forth knees and curled away from the knight.

"My lady, I am sorry," he hurriedly apologized, "Please forgive me, I simply…" he came to a stop and sighed. He looked to his charge for the first time since being bound. He saw her shaking, whether from cold or tears he did not know. Her gauze and silken dress ruffled in the chilling breeze and she curled tighter upon herself. The guards had removed her fur lined cloak as they bound her, leaving his charge exposed to the frozen night. Only loose, billowing layers of thin chiffon and silken ribbons separated Gwynayne from the chill winds and creeping cold.

He glanced quickly to each of the guards, satisfied they were now sufficiently drowsy and occupied with their own thoughts. Quickly he shuffled a few inches closer to Gwynayne and tenderly tapped her head with his own. Sniffling, his charge slowly turned her head to peep between tangled locks of white hair. He smiled to her, silently pleading for forgiveness and giving what comfort he could.

"Try to come closer if you can, this night will only get colder I fear," he whispered softly. After only a moment's pause, Gwynayne nodded and began to squirm her way closer to the knight. Though she was straining against the ropes, now biting into her limbs, she welcomed the warmth of her guardian's body and lay her head against his arm.

"I did not intend to sound so –"

"Mean?" Gwynayne quickly asserted, glancing up to give a withering stare.

A small smile crossed the knight's lips and he nodded.

"Yes. I –" he stopped short as one of the guards lazily glanced over the prisoners. Drumming his fingers over his sheath, he resumed his relaxed slump against the pine and watched as his fellow companions shared mead and tales around the fires.

"My lady, speak softly. We may have little time." Facing away, he lowered his head and continued, his own voice barely a faint whisper, "My dagger is still concealed within my right boot. Can you use a telekinesis spell to draw it forth?"

"I…I'm not," she paused, then nodded, determined, "I shall try."

"Be as inconspicuous as possible. If you haven't the strength, don't force yourself, you shall only draw their attention. Pretend to sleep, we mustn't gain their attention."

"Alright."

Gwynayne shut her eyes and settled deeper into the folds of Mordistair's sleeve, hoping to appear asleep. Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind, thinking only of the ebony dagger hidden within the knight's boot. She pictured the soft flourishing curves of the hilt, entwined with strands of pure silver and garnished with a crimson rose. She tried to imagine the feel of the cold steel against her palm, the slight curve resting neatly within her hand. Though her hands were bound behind her back, she raised her fingers in what little attempt she could to invoke the blade forward. With another breath she felt the now common warmth spread through her body that accompanied the particular spell, pooling in her palm and fingertips. She reached out to the blade, concentrating only on slipping it from its leather cocoon. Wriggling her nose in frustration, she felt resistance. Swaying her fingers from side to side, she attempted to free the dagger.

"Keep going, I can feel it moving," the knight quickly whispered.

Steeling her mind's inner eye, she continued to focus on the blade, imagining it slide from the fold within the boot. The warmth in her fingers began to grow hot and her breath had become heavy and strained.

"I think I'm losing it," she whispered between weary breaths, her face now pinched from the struggle and exertion.

"You're nearly there," he quickly assured, "just a bit further."

Gwynayne winced as the heat in her palm and fingers turned to sharp pain, as if they had been thrust into an open flame. Suddenly she felt Mordistair jump beside her. Her eyes flew open in worry, and saw him stifle a cry and jerk his leg forward, gritting his teeth.

One of the guards noticed the sudden movement and glanced to the prisoners, his attention piqued. Gwynayne could only stare in worried silence as Mordistair regained his composure. Grimacing, the knight began to rush toward the pair. Gwynayne ducked against Mordistair's side and held her breath, thinking herself an incapable fool.

The guard quickly passed the two and continued onto the opposite side of the tree. Gwynayne and Mordistair watched with bated breath.

"Ay! Wake up you idiot!" the guard called out to his companion, who had fallen asleep against the tree, snoring softly into the night. The soldier jumped with a start as the angered guard grabbed his shoulder and shoved him awake.

"Get your hands off me!" the soldier rebuffed groggily, "Mind your own post and leave me to mine."

"You'd get us both beaten if I left you to yours. Save your sleep for after your bloody shift," the soldier muttered angrily, and turned to resume his watch.

Mordistair and Gwynayne quickly shut their eyes and pretended to sleep. The soldier gave but a glance as he returned to his pine.

Minutes passed until Mordistair began to stir, lifting his head from Gwynayne's. Cautiously, she opened her own eyes and watched as the knight began to straighten his legs, wincing from the effort.

"What happened?" she cried out in hushed tones, her head turned away, fearful the now vigilant guard would notice.

Mordistair groaned between grit teeth as he tried again to straighten his leg.

"If you can..." he began to ask, his voice strained, "please try…to remove the blade…from my calf."

Gwynayne immediately grew pale as her eyes flew to her knight's leg, her mouth open in horror.

"Mordistair! Oh, Mordistair, I didn't mean to, I-I I'm so sorry, Mordistair," she began to babble, seemingly on the edge of tears.

The guard stirred, leaning off his tree as he peered toward the two.

"My lady," Mordistair hurriedly whispered, his head strained far to the side, "please…not so loudly. I…I am fine…the blade is not…deep."

"Don't move," she murmured, staring apologetically to her knight.

Without another word, she held her breathe and spread her fingers, staring determinedly ahead, fixating on the grass before her as she cleared her mind. Exhaling, she closed her eyes and imagined the dagger once again in the palm of her hands. The warmth quickly blossomed in her fingers, growing hotter with even greater speed, her body long ago pushed to its limits. With a trembling moan, she quickly jerked her bound wrists, wrenching the dagger from Mordistair's flesh.

He immediately gasped, cringing as blood began to freely flow down his calf, pooling at his ankle.

Gwynayne doubled over as far the ropes allowed, silently trying to catch her breath, swaying as her vision began to blur. She felt slightly nauseous, and wanted nothing more than to collapse to the ground. Such an advanced spell was beyond her grasp.

Mordistair stared desperately from the corner of his eye, the closest guard was becoming increasingly suspicious from the sudden gasps and groans, jerks and cringing of the pair. He could only watch his lady in calm silence, as worry and self-loathing raged within.

With the last of her strength she straightened herself and leaned against the tree. She turned her head weakly to the side, cringing as she noticed fresh blood beginning to stain her knight's boot. Her now pale lips trembled as she struggled to whisper.

"I can…still...I…I'll heal…your – "

"Stop," Mordistair pleaded, unable to watch her further harm herself, "No more."

She parted her lips, about to refute, but only crumpled against his side.

Mordistair tried to cradle her as best he could, and watched with bated breath as the guard began to move amidst the trees, darting his eyes between they and the forest. Soon, he turned his back, and began to pace in the opposite direction, circling round to the far reaches of the clearing where the Jarl now slept.

Gwynayne remained limp against Mordistair's side, her face buried deep into his sleeve. He was still following the pacing guard when he suddenly felt a small patch of his sleeve grow wet. Concerned he turned to see his charge trembling as she silently cried against his side.

"No, my lady," he quickly began, "please do not worry yourself – "

"This is all my fault," she mournfully sighed between quiet sobs. She lifted her head, meeting the knight's eyes.

Mordistair longed to brush the sticky trails of tears and matted strands of hair from the girl's cheeks, to wrap her quivering shoulders in a blanket, to provide some means of solace and comfort.

With a slight shake of his head, he spoke to his charge.

"The fault is mine, my lady, I alone bear the blame for our confinement."

Glancing quickly to determine the guards' positions as they passed between trees, he continued, "I accepted their aid, I relinquished my weapon, I left your side, I…" he stopped, lowering his eyes and smiling softly, "I may not have been entirely cordial to our bearish host."

"But I am the reason we are here, and I still don't know where "here" is!"

Mordistair quickly recounted the few hours his charge had missed, from his first encounter with the soldiers to his interrogation.

"But who are they?"

"Stormcloaks I can only assume. Their commander is Jarl Ulfric, leader of the recent rebellion, or uprising I suppose, from the Empire's position."

"But what do they want with us?"

"The Jarl believes we may have ties of some sort to the Imperials, politically or militarily I do not know, perhaps both. He must know we come from Wayrest, that you hold some amount of importance within the court."

"But there must be other Bretons in Skyrim, we have already come across a handful ourselves! What does it matter if we are from Wayrest?"

"I believe most of his fury is directed at me, my lady, I was not…forthcoming with our identities or purpose. He still does not know who we are or our intentions. I doubt he is completely confident in his beliefs that we are spies or Imperials of some sort. As Jarl, I'm sure he is unaccustomed to not getting the information he wants."

Mordistair decided to refrain from sharing the Jarl's hatred for elves.

Gwynayne remained silent, seeming to ponder over the recent revelations.

"Would it be so terrible if he knew who we were, where we travel to? I still don't understand myself the need for all this secrecy," she queried, her voice becoming slightly embittered as she continued, "it isn't very proper for a simple knight to know more than his master."

"Your father has demanded my silence on the matter, my lady. Such secrecy is necessary, I assure you. We do not keep you in the dark for our amusement."

Straightening, with nose upturned, she looked away from the knight in exaggerated irritation and contempt, "It's still improper. I believe you're exceeding your station, Mordistair."

The knight smiled at his charge's antics, pleased she had momentarily forgotten their predicament, now too busy pretending to be cross.

With a sigh, she looked to the moons.

"This is still all my fault, Mordistair. We lost our horses because of me, we – "

"Losing the horses wasn't entirely your fault, my lady. I believe the weather may have had a slight hand in the matter," the knight chuckled, remembering how his charge had chased after the frightened ponies on foot for nearly a mile before he could convince her to surrender the chase.

Gwynayne stared at the knight with narrowed eyes, "You're interrupting."

"Forgive me, my lady," the knight pleaded, bowing his head in mock humility, "please continue."

Tossing her head aside, she twisted her body away from the knight, "No, I don't think I shall. I tire of your impertinence."

It had taken years for Mordistair to become accustomed to his charge's fickle tempers and quicksilver emotions. Only seventeen when first assigned as his lady's personal guardian, he often inadvertently worsened her moods or took her words too personally. It was only after learning of her status in her father's court and accumulating years of experience with Gwynayne did he come to handle her harsh words and erratic states with ease and understanding.

Silence hung between the two as they watched the fires and circles of soldiers that huddle close. Even Mordistair, cloaked in armor, began to shiver as the night drew on, growing colder as the stars shone brighter and the moons past through the sky.

"What are we going to do," Gwynayne whimpered, once again bringing her legs close as she tried to warm herself.

"I will try and speak with the Jarl in the morning. I'm sure such a quick moving regiment would not wish to be burdened with prisoners, perhaps I can reason with him. If not…"

He paused, unsure what say, having no plan to speak of. Gwynayne looked to him, hopeful. When he said nothing, her face fell and she turned away.

"I suppose it shall be up to me then," she sighed trying to lighten the mood with faux exasperation, "I will have to save us, as usual."

Mordistair gave a half-hearted smile, distracted, mulling over how he could possibly obtain their release, diplomatically or otherwise.

Finally succumbing to exhaustion, Gwynayne rested her head against the knight, trying to settle herself as comfortably as possible against the strain of the ropes.

Mordistair watches as the guards were relieved, eagerly trotting to the fires to collect what scraps of dinner and mead they could manage. Many of the rebels had already returned to their tents, or merely wrapped themselves in cloaks as they slept by the fires.

The throbbing in his leg had finally quieted and he felt the blood that coated his calf begin to dry, aided by the frigid night air. He worried how the wound would impair his ability to fight or flee, should his attempts at diplomacy fail, as he feared they would.

His eyes fluttered, sleep soon to overtake him. He lay his head atop his charge's and attempted to shuffle closer to her side in hopes of keeping her warm. With a last glance to the moons overhead, the knight closed his eyes, falling asleep cloaked in pale frost.

* * *

It was the first Nordic battle cries that awoke them. The sun had only just crept over the tallest pines, the frost covered ground not yet touched by the first tendrils of cold light. Mordistair gasped as he awoke, chilled to the bone and startled by the sudden shouts. Desperately shaking his head to clear his vision, he watched as the rebels swarmed from their tents and fire pits into the forest, axes and swords held aloft in righteous fury.

Heart racing, he saw the bearish Jarl step calmly from his tent. Eyes narrowed, Ulfric glanced to the anxious knight. It was then that the first of the Imperials burst through the tree line and the blood began to spill.


	4. Chapter Four - A Withered Rose

Hello again! This chapter was written surprisingly quickly, even though it is far longer than any previous chapter. I hope everyone enjoys it, as it finally contains a touch of action. Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and faves, as always! Please feel free to point out any mistakes so that I can make the story better for everyone. Now that school has come to a close, I hope to have new chapters every few days. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Four

A Withered Rose

Gwynayne stared, mesmerized in disbelief. Her pulse raced as she held her breath, unable to comprehend what she saw. Her life had been one of seclusion until this point. Separated from the world beyond the stone walls of her father's court had sheltered her from such displays of brutality, this apparent ease with which human life was so quickly severed, so disregarded. Though she had heard stories and seen tapestries depicting the mighty battles of kings and ages past, she had only ever witnessed Mordistair and his fellow Rose Knights sparing, mere practice to upkeep their skills. Rarely did they wound each other beyond mere scratches or slight cuts.

She couldn't hear herself gagging on her own breath as the blood rushed through her head, now dizzy and somehow feeling unconnected to her own body. She could only stare as one of the Stormcloak soldiers crumpled to the forest floor, his skull crushed and slit from temple to jaw. Ragged shards of bone jutted from soft pockets of muscle, the blood only just beginning to slither down his nose and cheek. His eyes stared dully ahead, their gaze never leaving her own. Suddenly, a fellow rebel tripped over the fresh corpse, trying to fend off an attacking Imperial. He reached out to steady his fall with his free hand, gripping the remains of the fallen soldier's face. His finger dug into the pink flesh and scraped against the bone. Unfazed, he raised his sword again to block an Imperial blow, digging deeper into the now crushed skull as he pushed himself off the ground to attack. His hand was dripping with blood. Pale lumps of milky flesh and small splinters of bone clung to his fingers, slowly sliding down the slick trails of blood. He pushed the Imperial back, with little concern for his fallen companion, or the flesh that clung to him. With a barbaric cry, the rebel parried and thrust his blade into the Imperial's throat, just above the collarbone. With an upward wrench that snapped the soldier's head back, he freed his blade and turn to drive further into the thrall, his sights already set on the nearest Imperial. He did not stay to watch as his victim slumped to the ground, now ungracefully poised against a decaying stump.

The rebel had only taken a few quick steps before an arrow pierced his side. Before he could react, another rushed to his leg and he cried out from shock and pain. Clutching his thigh and side, the Stormcloak fell to his knees. An Imperial emerged from behind a nearby tree, rushed behind the fallen Nord and drove a war axe into the back of his skull. Strands of pale blonde hair slid across the blue sash and to the ground in a tight curl.

The sudden rush of the clatter of wood and steel, the thick, sharp smell of blood, crisp as rust and iron overcame Gwynayne with violent, sudden clarity. The agonizing, beastly war cries rebounded through the trees and she felt them shudder through her body.

"GWYNAYNE!"

Slowly she turned her head, not entirely sure she had heard a voice, for a moment her name sounded foreign, not her own.

"Lady Gwynayne!"

Mordistair was frantically screaming her name, and had been doing so since she witnessed the first body fall.

The last of the faint mist that had seemed to shield her senses from the ongoing slaughter finally dissipated. Slowly becoming further aware of her surroundings, she began to heave and gasp as she twisted her head from side to side, catching glimpses of rendered limps and fallen corpses, final blows and death moans. She pushed against her binds, clawing at the ground with her feet hysterically, like a freshly trapped animal. She began to cry out between strangled breaths as she struggled, unable to budge, only capable of scrapping her body against the rough bark of the pine.

"Lady Gwynayne, stop!" Mordistair cried out, his face twisted in terror over his charge's growing instability. She continued to scrape against the ground, hyperventilating and violently thrusting again and again the ropes to free herself, crying out as she failed.

"GWYNAYNE STOP!" he screamed again, straining against his own binds to reach her.

She turned to stare at him, her dark eyes wide with absolute horror. She seemed to finally recognize his voice.

"Do not watch, just look at me," he hurriedly ordered, afraid to lose her once again, "Just…" he paused, unable to continue.

With quick, frantic glances he watched the sprawling battle that surrounded them. Most of the Imperials had fought their way to the clearing now, destroying the few Stormcloak tents and tossing over the now cool fire pits in their struggle. His fluttering glances came across the Jarl, adeptly fighting a small, but growing group of Imperials that began to push him into the tree line. His eyes were wild and his lips curled back in animalistic pleasure as he struck down his opponents, his bear cloak now stained and matted with human blood.

The sound of scraping metal and shuffling footfalls began to near as Mordistair watched the Jarl's escalating battle at the far side of the clearing. Snapping his head around, he strained to discern the nearing combatants, struggling against his binds as his charge had, desperate to free himself. Within moments a Stormcloak and Imperial burst from behind the tree they were bound to, circling round the trunk, now a mere few feet away as they continued to deflect each other's' blows. The soldiers pushed against each other with their shields, readying the swords at their sides, stealing a few quick breaths as they steadied themselves.

As quickly as they had appeared, the fight was over. The Stormcloak struck with deadly precision, shoving a blow aside with his shield then swinging his own blade cleanly across the Imperial's neck. Blood immediately spurted into the air in fine streams and a soft spray, coating the rebel's face and further soling the edge of Gwynayne's dress and boots. The Imperial's head dangled from a small piece of flesh, almost completely severed, and with a sway the body fell. The head bounced as it landed then rolled next the shoulder, pulling at the bit of flesh and skin that connected it to the soldier's neck.

Staring, Gwynayne began to scream. She pushed against the tree, as if trying to escape the body, shrieking at the top of her voice. As the head finally settled, her shrieks were overcome with sobs and she began to cry.

Mordistair stared at the fallen Imperial, a young woman who looked no older than himself. Slowly, wide eyed and barely breathing, he stared at the Nordic rebel.

He was catching his breath, and he too stared at the body. Mordistair could see no emotion on his face. He turned to face the young knight, his face smothered in blood, sweat, and strands of his hay colored hair. With a look to the crying Gwynayne, still trying to frantically squirm away from the body, he raised his sword.

The sudden movement snapped Mordistair from his momentary daze. He lunged futilely against the ropes, trying with all his strength to place himself in front of his charge, his teeth grit and his eyes wild as he stared down the Stormcloak.

The rebel walked to the far side of the tree and knelt inches from the knight's side. With a quick strike, he cut through the ropes and tossed them aside.

Mordistair stared at the rebel, recognition dawning on him as the man wearily pushed his hair aside and wiped the blood from his face. The eloquent Stormcloak who had taken his ebony blade the night before crouched beside the knight, reaching for the binds around his wrists without a word.

"Why are you doing this?" Mordistair asked, incredulous.

Gwynayne began to kick the fallen ropes from her lap, eager to be free of them, crying out with each shove as she continued to sob.

"The Imperials will finish with us soon, lad," the rebel tiredly cautioned, "You and your lady should flee with all haste."

Grunting, Mordistair wrenched his now freed arms apart, and the loose ropes fell from his wrists.

"Make for the border to the south, to Cyrodiil. I do not know why you travel our lands, but Skyrim is no place for visitors now."

The soldier finished cutting through the ropes that bound Mordistair's legs and moved toward Gwynayne, quietly weeping as she lay curled in the nook of the pine's roots, her face buried deep into the long ago dead and fallen leaves.

She cringed as the rebel reached out for her wrists and tried to scoot further into the roots to escape his grip. He paused only for a moment, staring sadly at the frightened girl, then quickly slid his blade against the ropes. Hands and legs now free, Gywnayne scuttled across the roots to Mordistair's side, pressing against him and reaching for his arm as she turned to bury her face in his sleeve, shoulders shaking as she continued to cry.

Mordistair immediately reached for his charge, holding her close and smoothing her hair to comfort her. She violently quivered, her hands desperately reaching for the folds of his tunic, as if she could never be close enough, held tight enough.

"Your blade is in my Jarl's tent."

Mordistair glanced up to the risen Stormcloak, who seemed to be growing ever more tired. It wasn't until the Nord cringed and grabbed his side that the knight noticed the trail of blood staining his blue cloak and dirty trousers. With a final nod, the rebel repeated his warning. "Do not stay in Skyrim."

Mordistair watched the rebel rejoin his comrades in the battle, disappearing quickly amidst the frost covered pines.

Gwynayne began to hiccup, making small inaudible sounds and moans as she buried her face deeper into Mordistair's side, trying to escape the escalating screams and battle cries.

Quickly rubbing her back, Mordistair drew them both to their feet. They swayed as they regained feeling in their limbs and he leaned against the tree as he gained his bearings.

The majority of the fight had returned to the forest, even the Jarl had disappeared from the far side of the clearing. Only a handful of men remained on the fringes of the tree line, and a single pair struggled near a fire pit, kicking up burned wood chips and logs in their wake.

Eyeing the large tent on the opposite side of the clearing, Mordistair patted Gwynayne's back and began to lead her forward, still holding her close to his side and shielding her vision as they passed bodies and limbs. She had begun to settle and her grip lessened as she silently followed her knight's direction. They slowly curled their way around the edge of the clearing, Mordistair scanning the clearing with constant vigilance, should a brawl draw near.

"Careful," he cautioned, trying to gingerly sidestep the trail of entrails that littered their path. With a heave, he hoisted Gwynayne from the ground and quickly passed the dismembered body, setting her down only after he had cleared the remains.

His leg was beginning to burn and ache from the strain, and he could feel fresh blood begin to pulse past the dried crust that had formed over his wound. He quickened his pace, fearing a confrontation with any of the combatants should he linger.

Coming to the edge of the tent, Mordistair tenderly pried his charge from his side. The weathered fabric sagged on the beams it had been stretched across, flapping in the cool morning breeze. One side had completely sunken in, collapsed on itself and shredded, another victim from one of the many clashes. Appearing unstable, ready to collapse from even the slightest disturbance, he drew Gwynayne aside and clasped her hands, bringing her to her knees as he crouched outside the tent.

"I'll be right inside, my lady. Don't move, I shall only be a moment."

Before he could even begin to straighten, his young charge held firm to his arm and leapt to his side, shaking her head as her eyes began to well with fresh tears, wide with fear.

"No…no, don't leave me. Please, please…don't leave me," she began to frantically babble.

Sighing, the knight nodded and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, lifting the back tent flap as he drew them inside. There were few belongings within the tent, the only table had been flipped onto its side, the map and regiment markers scattered. He quickly knelt to grab the map and shoved it under his breastplate, their own map lost on one of the long since frightened off ponies.

It took only a moment to locate his ebony blade resting next to an overturned bedroll in the corner of the tent. He drew the blade from its sheath to check its condition, and with a satisfied sigh, slid his sword through his belt, back into its proper place at his side.

"Please," Gwynayne softly whispered, no longer crying, but still shaking, "please Mordistair, can we leave? Please?"

The Rose Knight had never seen his charge so utterly defeated. Though her grip was strong against his shirt sleeve, her arms were limp and her shoulders hunched. Her hair was beyond taming with any brush and thoroughly knotted, lined with dead leaves and covered in dirt and traces of blood. Her wrists and legs bore thick, red welts from the ropes and small scratches and bruises covered her limbs from scraping and struggling against the tree bark. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks and neck covered in sticky tear trails and loose strands of hair. Her dress hung askew, torn, wrinkled and no longer crisp white, but covered in grime and mud. The hemline was stained crimson with drying blood and all of the ribbons were frayed and undone, hanging sadly at her side. Lace trim trailed on the ground behind her, only a few threads holding fast. She continuously shook and shivered, whether from fear or the bitter morning cold, Mordistair did not know.

She sniffled and stared forlornly at the ground in front of her. She appeared in a daze, slipping further into her own thoughts. Mordistair could only imagine what images, what sounds, what smells her mind was repeating for her in surely perfect, gruesome detail.

Tightening his belt with a last tug, he tenderly loosened her hands from his sleeve and held them in his own.

"This very moment," he answered, bending down to look her in the eye, trying to smile for her. She noticed, but gave no response, only turning her eyes away and biting her lip, slipping further into the recesses of her own mind.

* * *

He was beginning to limp.

The fresh blood that flowed from his calf was seeping through the sole of his boot, circling his ankle and slipping through his toes as it stained the ground. He struggled to refrain from favoring his other leg, unwilling to show the extent of the damage Gwynayne had caused.

They had fled the clearing without a second glance, and were now pushing through the frozen undergrowth of the forest. Gwynayne trailed behind the knight, holding onto his outstretched hand. She stared only at his ornate armor, losing herself in the silver flourishes and crimson petals. With every Nordic scream and Imperial cry she rushed forward, hovering only just behind the knight and stared intently at a single rose, lips trembling and eyes welling with fear as she circled the concentric petals.

"Careful, my lady, the growth is thick here."

Gwynayne only nodded, her eyes never straying, and stumbled on.

Mordistair stopped and looked to the sky, catching his breath as he rested his leg. The dawn's rays had finally touched the forest floor, and the bright pinks and yellow of the morn were beginning to settle to cold, faint blue. Though he saw no bodies, neither alive nor dead, the sounds of battle were not far off, he could only guess how widespread the fighting had become, how deep into the forest the soldiers had been pushed. It was becoming harder to focus, the thudding pulse of blood trickling from his leg was consuming his attention. He turned about, trying to quickly determine what path best to take, which direction would lead them out of the slaughter they had escaped.

A sudden twang of striking metal reverberated through the trees, and Mordistair spun, trying to determine its origins, cringing as he pulled on his leg. Gwynayne reflexively shrunk to his side, whimpering and gazing wildly about, as if an entire swarm were about to fall upon them. In quick succession sword and sword clashed again, followed by yelps and grunts. The combatants were drawing near.

Needing no further provocation, Mordistair tightened his grip on his lady's hand and plunged further into the forest, frantically weaving through trees and growth as best he could as his leg grew heavier with pain. Within moments, the shouting escalated. The sounds of barraging shields and clashing swords quickly grew louder, suddenly surrounding the pair. The two spun anxiously, fearing to see an onslaught of soldiers at any moment. It was Gwynayne who caught the first glimpse of red horsehair and leather plate through the trees, crying out. A small collection of Imperials were giving chase to a single Stormcloak on the steep hill above them. They moved quickly, overcoming the rebel with ease.

As one of the Imperials wrenched a great sword from the fallen Nord, another pointed to the Rose Knight, his ebony armor easily seen in the frost covered woods. Wasting no time, one of the soldiers quickly notched an arrow and fired as the others descended the hill. Mordistair wrapped his arms around his small charge and pulled her to the ground, shielding her with his body as the arrow brushed past. Adrenaline now souring through his veins, he flung himself and his charge behind the nearest tree.

He held her close, his hands wrapped around her neck and back. Biting his lip, he took only a moment to stare at his leg and the small trail of blood that he had been leaving in his wake, faint, but ultimately noticeable. He could hear the soldiers nearing the base of the hill now, their shuffling leather armor and clanking metal studs easily distinguishable. Gritting his teeth, he held his charge close for one last moment, then released his hold, lifting her head in cupped hands.

"My lady, there is no time to argue. I will stay to hold them off. Run," he commanded, "run and don't stop!"

"No…no, Mordistair, I – " she shook her head feverishly, "No! No!"

He hoisted her to her feet as she began to cry, gripping her shoulder tightly and cradling the side of her head in his palm.

"Fly as fast you can, I won't be far behind!" he lied, and with a sudden thrust, he spun her about and pushed her ahead, "Now go!"

She took a hesitant step and turned to watch her knight lean against the tree, clutching his leg, his face contorted in pain, blood flowing freely to the frozen ground.

She shook her head again, her tears now spilling over. "No, Mordistair – "

"Go!" He screamed, his eyes desperate and pleading.

She paused, staring at the Rose Knight and shaking her head, ignoring the sounds of the Imperials growing ever closer.

"GO!" he finally bellowed, voice raw, gripping the tree for support. He held her gaze as she continued to stare, unmoving. With weaning strength he sighed.

"Go."

And she fled.

* * *

The knight could only spare a moment to watch his charge flee into the trees. With a small smile, he saw the last flutter of her once white dress disappear behind a thick, sprawling bramble patch and he straightened against the tree trunk, groaning as he placed weight back onto his leg. He could hear the first of the soldiers only a few paces from where he hid, and he quickly took a handful of focused breaths, clenching his fingers in anticipation. The Imperials would not pass.

A twig snapped underfoot as an Imperial neared the tree. In one tight, fluid motion, the Rose Knight drew his ebony blade from his side and swung his body round the tree, sword aloft and high. It dragged through the first Imperial's throat, sending a thin stream of blood down the shaft, shining against the polished steel. The soldier dropped, his partially severed head sagging to one side. Ducking beneath the eager thrust of the soldier's companion, Mordistair drew forth the dagger from his boot, ignoring the slick blood that coated the handle, and swung his blade again, flicking his wrist as he slashed the backs of the soldier's thighs. The soldier immediately succumbed to his wounds and crumpled to the forest floor, gripping the backs of his legs as he writhed. Though his honor called to end the soldier's suffering, the knight had little time, and he continued off towards the base of the hill to meet the last of the soldiers. He came to a halt as the soldiers circled round him, now aware of his capabilities, they paced waiting to strike, rather than run forth, plunging to their deaths as their companions had. He held his blade aside and his dagger hovered in front of his face, his fingers circling tightly around the hilt as he altered his grip. He turned slowly to face his aggressors, trying to discern the strongest and weakest of the group before him.

One of the Imperials noticed the blood trailing on the ground surrounding the ebony clad warrior, seeping from some hidden wound under his boot. Without hesitation, the soldier hoisted his battle axe to strike when the knight's back was turned. Almost instantaneously, the boy circled, evading the sweeping lunge of the axe and spun to bring his blade down on the soldier's exposed arm. With no mail or even simple cloth to impair the cut, the ebony blade slid cleanly through the bone and muscle, and the arm dropped to the ground, the fingers still gripping to the axe handle for a moment before finally relinquishing their hold. The soldier's screams were muffled as Mordistair thrust his dagger into the soldier's throat, digging quickly, but deeply into the base of his skull. Without pause, he wrenched the dagger free and spun to face his remaining opponents, struggling to steady his breath and ignore the now agonizing, throbbing, pumping blood in his calf.

The remaining soldiers quickly shared a glance and then they were upon him. Mordistair groaned as he struggled to hold back the downward thrust of one soldier's swords with his dagger, then swung with his blade to collide with the mace of another. Pushing against the mace wielding soldier, he avoided the attack of the third, and managed to whip his blade across the attacker's upper arm, sliding off the leather plating on his chest. As the soldier fell back, gripping the fresh wound on his arm, Mordistair cried out in agony. The mace ripped through the flesh along his lower back, five deep, tearing cuts pulling at his skin. With a roar, he turned and circled round the soldier, raising his dagger again to fend off the attack of the sword bearer. With a quick parry as the mace sought to wound him again, he shoved it aside with his blade and sunk the metal deep into the chest of the Imperial.

Suddenly the formerly wounded soldier struck at Mordistair's arm with his sword. He could only just stumble back from the sweeping cut, and the blade merely sliced skin. Cringing as he bore weight upon his wounded leg, he swayed and the soldier stole the moment to land another successful blow at the knight. A deep cut slid through the previous flesh wound, from the edge of his breast plate to his elbow, and he cried out, stumbling further back along the base of the hill. His arm, and the dagger it held, hung limp at his side as he struggled to stay upright. As one of the soldiers lunged again, he managed to sidestep the thrust and sloppily pushed his blade into the soldier's thigh, just above the knee, trying in vain to strike anything not covered with leather or mail. With a howl, the soldier fell back, awkwardly stumbling as he brushed against a tree trunk. Gritting his teeth, Mordistair ignored the flaring pain in his arm and flung his dagger toward the tree, unable to waste even a moment to see if it struck true as he quickly turned to hold off the final attacks of the last Imperial.

Within moments it was over. Gasping for breath and doubled over, Mordistair weakly pried his blade from the soldier's side. Stumbling, ignoring the sweat that trickled down his cheek and temple, he made his way to the closest tree, an Imperial slumped across its roots, an ebony dagger embedded deep within his eye socket. Mordistair winced, from both pain and disgust as he wiggled the dagger free, grimacing as the majority of the eyeball clung to the blade, slowly creeping down the steel as it succumbed to gravity. With a quick flick of his wrist, he flung the remaining milky residue from the dagger and turned to sheath his blade when a sudden pain blossomed at his side.

Choking on his breath, Mordistair fell against the tree as he saw the arrow. It had pierced his torso just below the ribcage, partially passing through, the arrowhead and part of the shaft poking through his lower back.

"The archer…" he weakly murmured with realization as he slowly slid down the rough sap covered bark of the pine.

With a glance, he looked to the top of the hill. Now in plain sight he saw the Imperial notch another arrow and draw. Mordistair had only enough strength to close his eyes and lean his head back against the tree.

The archer would not give chase, would not waste precious time on his charge, now hopefully hidden deep within the woods, but would rejoin his regiment to finish off the Stormcloaks. Mordistair refused to believe otherwise and sighed, content, ready for death.


	5. Chapter Five - Sputtering Sparks

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, for some reason it didn't come together as well as I would have hoped. But let me know what you think by leaving a review with your own thoughts! I only hope to improve, so any constructive criticism would be wonderful! Regardless, I hope you enjoy. (On a side note: between posting this chapter and the next I will be reviewing the previous chapters and attempt to fix any grammatical errors or otherwise awkward phrasing.)

* * *

Chapter Five

Sputtering Sparks

_"__I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"_

_With each proclamation, she beat her small fists against his ebony armor, struggling in his grasp. Her bare feet scraped across the worn wood floor as she pushed against his arms, continuing to thrash about and tussle. She reached for his cravat with clawed fingers and a matching snarl only to have the knight calmly force her arms to her sides. She immediately began to squirm, angry tears pouring down her cheeks, pooling at her trembling bottom lip. Saying nothing, he spun her about and wrapped his arms about her waist, making sure to keep her struggling arms pinned. As he lifted her in the air she began to fiercely kick at his shins, straining her neck to face the knight and overcome his grip._

_"__Stop it!" she shrieked, thrashing from side to side, "Let me go! You can't do this!"_

Mordistair held her tight, and she buried her face against his neck. She could feel his pulse racing beneath the cravat, nearly as fast as her own. He brushed his thumb against the base of her neck and pressed his cheek against the crown of her head.

_The knight took a moment to brace and steady himself, his willful charge was utilizing all her strength, continuously striking his thighs and shins, straining her back to pop from his grasp. She cried and grunted in frustration as she began to beat the back of her head against his chest. _

_"__You're evil! YOU'RE EVIL!" she screeched, twisting from side to side, trying to slip her arms from the knight's firm hold._

_Her guardian was silent as he maneuvered around the simple wooden furnishing of the small cottage, sidestepping the thick braided rug and accompanying rocking chair. Books of all kinds, from advanced spellbooks to old historical tomes littered the floor, some in piles, others left wide open. He calmly pushed them aside as he continued, taking care not to shift the pages. _

_Hearthfire's evening light flowed through the windows in soft, honey golden streams. The plain ceramic table ware shone in the warm light, waiting expectantly for the evening meal. Tender shadows danced on the wooden floor as a breeze rustled the flowers growing outside, trellising up the window frames. Simple tapestries and rustic paintings were hung about the walls in a quaint, happenstance fashion. Handmade quilts and cushions lined the chairs, soft candles flickered on the sills, and herbs hung from the rafters. A perfume of drying flowers, old wood, and bubbling stew filled the cottage. Though thoroughly planned and constructed by the most accomplished craftsmen, it was the very embodiment of picturesque charm and idyllic country comfort._

_"__You traitor! LET ME GO!"_

_Gwynayne kicked out in protest, sending a side table toppling. Fresh sunflowers flew to the ground, their vase crashing to the floor soon after. _

_"__How dare you!" she cried out, "You disobedient, awful, insubordinate, vile…WRETCH!"_

_Mordistair huffed as he adjusted his grip around her waist, shifting her weight as he began to climb the stairs. Gwynayne reached out to grip the banister with her toes, trying in vain to wrap her ankles around the ornately carved beam. As her feet merely slipped from the polished wood she bawled in defeat and began to hang limply in her knight's arms, her strength exhausted._

The knight tenderly lifted her head to meet his, caressing her jaw as he implored her to run, to leave him behind.

_"__I hate you," she feebly moaned, letting her head rest against his breastplate. Her voice was no longer venomous, rather, she stated it as a fact, undeniable. _

_The knight only continued down the hall, shuffling past piles of laundry, shoes, and trails of simple craft supplies. He grunted, shifting Gwynayne in his arms, hesitating as he loosened his hold to open the bedroom door. But she remained still, head limp, arms and legs lifelessly dangling. _

She refused, shaking her head vehemently. Mordistair pulled her to her feet and cradled her cheek in his palm. He promised to follow, smiled, as if everything was so simple, so certain. She could hear the approaching footfalls and shuffles of the Imperials as they neared the base of hill and he spun her about, prodding her forward.

_Mordistair felt resistance as he tried to open the door. He leaned his shoulder against the wood panels, pulling Gwynayne to his side, resting her on his hip. As he rammed his body against the door again, he slowly managed to push it aside. Blankets and undergarments were caught up underneath the rail, and he heard a pile of books topple to the ground as he gave a final shove. With a sigh, he squeezed through the opening, quickly hopping into the room as the door swung closed behind him, succumbing to the weight of more falling books. _

_He set his charge to the floor, gently unwrapping his arms as he stepped back. He watched for a moment, readying himself should she attempt another attack, but she only stared at the floor, her shoulders sagging and her head downcast. _

She stumbled forward, immediately spinning to face the cringing knight, doubled over to clutch his leg. Her tears hastened, spilling down her cheeks and she called out to him, refusing to abandon him.

_"__I do not – "_

_"__Do not speak to me," Gwynayne spat, turning her head aside, showing lips curled in disgust._

_Her long tresses shielded her face, hiding the tears that fell freely to the floor._

_"__My lady, this is – "_

"Go!" he screamed to her, his eyes wrought with fear and worry. He sensed her stubborn apprehension, and his face fell as she again shook her head, again ignoring his pleas.

_"__Go away!" she screamed, spinning on her heels to face him, "Don't ever speak to me again! I don't want you in my presence, EVER! I LOATHE YOU!"_

_Her chest heaved as she bawled between her harsh screams. Her teeth were grit and her fists balled at her side as she stared down the knight._

Again, bellowing with terrified rage, he commanded her leave, to flee.

_He had lowered his eyes, his face bore no expression but a quiet withdrawal. For a moment he did nothing, only stared coldly at the floor before him, his thoughts distant. His lips quivered as if about to speak, but he simply bowed his head and slipped from the room, quietly shutting the door behind him._

_Her raging anger not yet satisfied, having felt no opposition from the silent knight, she rushed toward the door and screamed as loud as her voice could manage. _

_"__I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE A TRAITOR'S DEATH YOU WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A KNIGHT!" _

_For a moment, his footsteps stopped. Gwynayne's tears welled anew, and she began to sob and gasp, her vile emotions still not satisfied. _

_After short pause, she could hear him continue to make his way down the corridor, and the sound of his steps disappeared as he descended the stairs._

Mordistair looked to her with pleading eyes. He gripped the rough bark of the pine, still clutching his leg, struggling not to reveal the extent of the pain he felt. With a slow sigh, soft and desperate, he begged for the last time.

"Go."

Her vision was clouded, her eyes blurred with spilling tears, but she thought he smiled, his last attempt of assurance that all would be well.

She turned and ran.

She tried to keep her mind clear, to focus purely on the forest before her, to seek a path of little resistance between the thick bramble patches and rocky terrain. But the memories would not be denied. They scrambled for prominence, every fight, every scream, every struggle, every cruel joke, every harsh word pushed to the forefront of her thoughts. She found it hard to breathe as ran through the trees sobbing.

_"__I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE A TRAITOR'S DEATH YOU WORTHLESS EXCUSE FOR A KNIGHT!" _

She cringed, shaking her head from side to side, pumping her arms as she ran, flying across the forest floor, trying to outpace even her memories.

* * *

The pines were beginning to blend together, none of them distinguishable from the next. They towered in their frost cloaks above the small Breton, seeming to draw closer as she spun about the forest floor, turning her head frantically, eyes darting as she sought a path. The hills had become steeper, lined with jutting rocks and covered in slippery frost. The foliage was thick and tangled upon itself, spilling over fallen logs and stumps rotting with mora tapinella.

With hesitant steps, she backed away, timidly glancing from side to side. Though she could no longer hear the cries of war, she feared a bloodthirsty soldier or rebel around every turn, and for a moment she simply shuffled her feet, uncertain and afraid.

A lone sparrow chirped overhead, hidden in the bushy boughs of a towering pine. She snapped her head upward, eager to find the creature. With a quick flick of its tail feathers, it launched from the tree and spiraled through the forest, easily twisting around trees and ducking under branches laden with old snow. Naively, she immediately trailed after the bird, hopping over decaying logs and pushing her way past a clump of prickly thistles. She was ready to cling to any guidance, even that shown by a simple songbird, and blindly followed it through the wood, believing it could only lead her to safety.

She stumbled, her foot catching on one of her sagging boots, already coming apart at the seams and the tattered ribbons trailing behind her. The intricate lace of her dress would catch and cling to nearly any bramble she brushed against, but still she pushed forward, straining to keep the sparrow in her sights.

It was not long till she began to recognize certain trees, certain boulders, and with growing trepidation, she began to slow. Glancing worriedly about her surroundings she caught sight of a fallen body, its limbs bent and pulled unnaturally to one side, a trail of blood smeared across the ground. With a small cry, she fell back against a pine, jumping with fright as she felt its rough bark. Whimpering she pushed around it, scrambling to flee the body. She began to run, sliding on the frost covered boulders. She raised her arms to shield her face as she pushed through low hanging branches, an immediate rush of sappy pine clouding her sense of smell.

And then she came upon them.

She came to a halt as she stared with horror at the mass of Imperials before her. They surrounded a pair of Stormcloaks, blood drenched Nords fighting desperately to hold the soldiers at bay. Just beyond them was the clearing, desecrated with the dead and dying. For all her wandering, she had arrived back to the source of all her struggles.

One of the rebels managed to push through the Imperial ranks, stumbling from the circle and toward the tree line. Now cowering against the closest tree, Gwynayne recognized the wounded Nord. Mordistair had seemed familiar with the man when he'd cut their bonds.

His face was pasty and pale, covered in sweat and streaks of drying blood. He sagged to one side, weakly holding his sword in front of him. He drew deep and ragged breaths, ready to collapse. An Imperial quickly followed as he fell back, tripping on his lagging feet against one of the pines. With a weak grunt, he raised his bloody sword, trying to block the downward swing of the Imperial, eager to finish with the weakening rebel.

The Imperial knocked the sword from the Nord's grasp and it toppled into the clearing, carving a path through the tall grass. His legs buckled and he slid down the trunk of the tree, staring up at the soldier as he accepted his fate. With a harsh cry, the Imperial raised his sword.

"N-no!"

Gwynayne raised her hands instinctively. With a sputtering fizzle and snap, an arc of lightning, wild and reaching, coursed from her hands, the electric tendrils plunging deep into the Imperial's body. He seized as the lighting circled his body, caressing him in violet sparks. His sword dropped to the ground as his hand twisted and pulsed. His head was pulled back and he gagged.

It was only a moment, but upon seeing the terror of her spell, Gwynayne dropped her hands, falling to her knees. She wrapped her arms about herself, as if it would stop the lightning from wracking the soldier's body. She could only watch in terror.

Before the spell could dissipate the Stormcloak jumped to his feet and rammed his shoulder against the incapacitated Imperial, tossing him to the ground without resistance. He charged into the clearing and recovered his blade, turning to face his opponent with renewed strength.

The magical display had not gone unnoticed by the remaining Imperials, still at odds with the last Stormcloak. Two broke from the group and charged the girl, still trembling on the forest floor. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the clearing.

Her short strides were quickly overcome by the charging soldiers, and in a desperate attempt to dodge their attack she leapt into the glade, falling in a heap at the base of a tree. She curled into a ball, wrapping her hands around her head, the only armor she had at her disposal, sobbing, crying out as she heard their nearing footsteps.

The Nord wasted no time in rushing toward the Imperials, only just managing to halt their assault on the terrified girl. With a roar, he thrust his sword toward the nearest soldier, taking care not to step on Gwynayne, still curled up in the roots of the tree. He quickly placed himself between her and the Imperials, blocking a soldier's staggering blow with his gauntlet as he held off the thrust of the other with his sword. The blade dug deep into the leather and cut through his flesh. He jerked his arm back as he cried out, but continued to parry with his remaining strength.

Gwynayne peeked through her fingers, confused as to why she was untouched. She shrieked upon seeing the Nord, almost on top of her, fighting off the Imperial soldiers. Scrambling up the trunk of the tree, scraping her hands on the rough bark, she watched, breathless with fear as the Nord was quickly succumbing to his fresh wounds.

Suddenly, a beastly roar erupted from the fight in the forest, and a handful of Imperials fell to the ground. The bearish Jarl revealed himself and cried out with furious ecstasy as he charged from the circle of soldiers. He was drenched in blood, and from the way he proclaimed his victory, displayed his barbaric zeal, it was clearly not his own. He barred his teeth as his lips curled back in a twisted smile, whipping his war axe into the skull of a charging Imperial, sending the now dead boy careening to the ground. He backed toward the edge of the clearing, laughing, a sword raised as he adjusted his grip on the axe.

"Our path to Sovngarde will be lined with the corpses of Imperials, brother!" he cried out to the rebel, laughing as he readied his weapons, digging his feet deep into the blood softened earth.

* * *

It was a display he would not soon forget. The ebony clad warrior nearly danced as he spun about the Imperials, so bumbling and incompetent by comparison. The wound on his leg seemed to have little effect on his ability. With a cringe, he watched as the warrior plunged his dagger through the throat, up into the skull of one of the soldiers, withdrawing with a flourish, emotionless save for the fierce determination in his eyes.

He settled into a more comfortable position on the branch, eager to see how long the elegant fighter would last against so many opponents. He had never been adept at discerning the races of those he came across, but the boy was clearly no Nord. His moves were tight and controlled, his attacks precise and studied, almost romantic with subtle flourish.

Finally, the warrior was struck, a bloom of fresh blood stained his sleeve and he stumbled in pain. He was finally beginning to weaken. But he carried on, striking at the soldiers, bringing another down with a thrown dagger to the eye, so certain in his ability he needn't even confirm his mark.

He chuckled at such an audacious display of skill. He shifted in his perch, twiddling an arrow in his fingers, shaking his head with glee, amused as the final soldier succumbed to the superior skills of the warrior.

Quickly tiring, the boy trudged to one of the fallen Imperials, pulling his dagger from the body, straightening with obvious pain. Suddenly, an arrow shot through his side and he fell against the tree, his strength sapped.

Just as startled as the weakening warrior, the observer's eyes darted to the source of the arrow. An Imperial archer poised on a nearby hill reached for another arrow, clearly displeased at his poor first shot.

"Now that doesn't seem very fair," he laughed, and quickly strung his own bow.

In a moment, the soldier was in his sights. With a low breath, he smiled and let his arrow fly.

* * *

The Nord had managed to fell one of the soldiers, but even the ferocity of his resolve could not stay his ebbing strength, and he succumbed to blows of the second, eager to revenge his companion and finish with the rebel. Paralyzed with fear, Gwynayne clutched the base of the tree, fearing her own death was only moments away as the Imperial turned to face her. But as he raised his sword his head bobbed and shuddered, then slumped against his shoulder. An axe handle jutted from the back of his skull, the head burrowed deep within, hidden almost entirely from view. The Jarl emerged around the side of the tree, grunting with pleasure as he ripped his weapon from the crumpled soldier.

He rose to his full height. His hulking shadow easily eclipsed her small, trembling body, and she stared up in horror, fearing she'd only traded one attacker for another. But the Jarl merely turned and gazed about the clearing, the wild and brutal gleam in his eye now sullen and brooding, wretchedly tamed. Fresh Imperials had made their way to the despoiled glade, emerging quickly from the forest on all sides. Swords aloft and arrows drawn, they quickly surrounded the pair.

She knew not whether to be relieved or terrified. The gruesome fighting, the killing, the screaming, had finally stopped. But her heart raced.

With tear filled eyes she looked to the dead Nord before her, his right forearm severed and a gaping wound now disfiguring the side of his head, his nose collapsed and crushed. With his one remaining eye he stared at her, unblinking, cold and void. With swelling nausea, she blinked back tears and looked aside, trying to steady her breath.

Suddenly, riders on horseback trotted into the clearing, bound in glistening steel armor and gilded leather, pristine and untouched. They slowed as they neared the circle of soldiers, the leader nodding to those on his flanks as he came to stop. A Redguard woman eagerly dismounted, followed by an Imperial, and marched through the ring of soldiers.

With a dark smile, she stopped in front of the Jarl.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," she proclaimed, her voice dripping with pride, "seems you've swung your last axe."

He merely sneered, holding his tongue.

With that, she motioned to a handful of the closest soldiers, and they rushed to subdue and bind both Jarl and Breton.

Ulfric resisted as a soldier wrapped a gag around his mouth. Snorting with hate and looking to the now smirking Redguard with frost cold eyes, he shook off the hands that sought to guide him, and marched, parting the ring of soldiers.

Gwynayne pushed back further into the roots of the pine, crying as she shielded herself with her trembling hands. As the young Imperial woman knelt to grab her arms, she began to weakly resist, curling further into a tight ball.

"No! Please, no!"

She was nearly convulsing now, tears pouring down her cheeks as she pled and sobbed.

"Quiet!" the Imperial ordered, roughly grabbing the girl's wrists, dragging her harshly across the roots as she bound them in thick ropes.

"Get her with the rest of the prisoners!" the Redguard shouted, following a small detachment that broke off to lead the subdued Jarl through the clearing. With the superior prize in hand, she cared little for the cowering girl.

Those who remained on horseback turned and began to ride alongside the procession, the foremost commander's head held aloft with pride and triumph. Gwynayne still struggled against the young Imperial woman as she was hulled to her feet and again she pleaded.

"I'm not one of them! Stop this! Please!"

"I said, quiet!" the woman harshly replied, and shoved the girl forward.

Stumbling, Gwynayne turned to face her, reaching out with bound hands. "I'm not a Stormcloak!" she began to bawl, shaking her head wildly, "I was taken – "

Having heard enough, the Imperial raised her sword and struck the young Breton with the butt of the hilt, propelling her to the ground. With a final whimper, Gwynayne lay still, unable to feel the hands now dragging her limp body across the blood soaked field.


End file.
